


A Smile Of Shadows

by BluejayPrime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-16 06:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluejayPrime/pseuds/BluejayPrime
Summary: Partially AU; other stuff taken from both series & books. All trigger warnings from GoT/asoiaf apply."A voice cuts through the air, carried on the winds, but hitting her like a dagger to the chest.“Brienne!”The sword drops from her hand as she turns around.""It is then that one of the many brothers remembers what they are here for, and he steps forward to bring his knife into the boy commander’s chest. The wench must be dealt with later, Ser Allister decides.""Sansa stares in disbelief as that small part of her brain of hers that is not occupied with the cold and immediate survival maybe, maybe, somewhere deep down remembers something vague about maidens and knights in shining armor for the first time in years."





	1. Vantage Points

_“Chess is an infinitely complex game, which one can play in infinitely numerous and varied ways.”_

**(Vladimir Kramnik)**

~*~

 

The man’s face is pale, his limbs are weak from blood loss. His lips have turned blue from the cold, and the smell of steel and copper is heavy on the air. The screams of the dying have long since subsided.

He stares up at her from dark blue eyes like the sky before the storm, though the fire is gone from them. He does not know her, obviously, though she is reasonably sure he’s heard her name before.

“Do you have any last words?” she asks, fingers tight around the hilt of the blade.

He considers. What kind of afterlife does the Lord of Light prepare?, she wonders. Still, as he speaks, the softness in his voice surprises her.

“Tell my brother…” He takes a rattling breath; she can see his life seeping from him second per second. The cold may have slowed it down, but the man before her is a talking corpse already, and he knows it. It’s a matter of justice, however.

“I don’t think I’ll meet him wherever I’m going”, he whispers, “Tell him, I’m sorry, if you do. Tell my daughter…”

There is a quiver in his lips, gone again within a split second. His eyes are as hard as the frozen snow as he looks up at her, now.

“Go on” he says, an air of command about him once more, “Do your duty.”

She raises the blade.

And then, a voice cuts through the air, carried on the winds, but hitting her like a dagger to the chest.

“Brienne!”

The sword drops from her hand as she turns around.

 

~*~

 

The wench screams as they tie her to the post.

She battles like a fury, with all the strength she has, and her voice rings around the walls of Castle Black as she howls insults at the men, some of which he has not heard but in the shabbiest tavern basements.

The boy commander does not move as he stands between those he believed to be his men, but stares at her in silence, grey eyes misty with disbelief. The wench is capable, he admits, as he watches her knock down two of the men, though of course they would expect her to be.

“Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him, you bloodsucking bunch of traitors and backstabbers, if any of you have as much as a single ounce of honor in your bodies!” Her eyes then focus on Ser Allister himself, not brimming with tears as you would expect, but burning with rage. “You of all men” she hisses, “you, that you swore an oath – you, how can you not know – you of all brothers-“

It is then that one of the many brothers remembers what they are here for, and he steps forward to bring his knife into the boy commander’s chest. The wench must be dealt with later, Ser Allister decides.

 

~*~

 

The cold bites her skin with hungry teeth, but she knows it’ll be worse if the hounds get to her.

Her body feels bruised and bloody, both from the fall and her marriage, as she cowers into her small hideout. Her skirt is still wet from the river, and frozen stiff at the seam.

It is ironic, as some small part of her brain notes, how she should have returned to the North only to die here – though, of course, there is the possibility that her oh so beloved husband did not send his men to kill her – and it’s a very likely possibility, now that she considers it. He might take Myranda’s death to heart and kill her in a fit of rage, of course, but truth be told, he does not seem to have Joffrey’s temper, much as she would prefer that right now.

That mere thought of hers almost forces a small, cold laughter from her throat.

It is drowned out by the howling of dogs, and by the voices of men.

She does not feel her legs anymore as they rudely pull her out from beneath the fallen tree that covers her hideout, but she does not feel much like crying either. She’s stopped crying a long while ago.

The clouds drift apart and suddenly, the sun’s light catches on honey brown and green and gold, and the clashing of blades fills the air.

Sansa stares in disbelief as that small part of her brain of hers that is not occupied with the cold and immediate survival maybe, maybe, somewhere deep down remembers something vague about maidens and knights in shining armor for the first time in years.

 


	2. A girl in the Riverlands, some time earlier.

_Honor and courage are matters of the bone, and what a man will kill for, he will sometimes die for, too._

**(Diana Gabaldon – “The Fiery Cross”)**

~*~

 

**ARYA**

The steel would not yield.

She grabbed a stone and smashed it against the lock, again and again, but nothing happened except for a few, shiny scratches on the rusty surface. Rust should make things brittle, she remembered dimly in the back of her head, but apparently, not this time.

Inside the cage, Greywind was raging.

She didn’t know if he sensed the situation, or if he remembered her smell, or if he honestly tried to assist her efforts, but with all the growling and crashing as he threw himself against the iron and wood, again and again, with all the power of a fully grown direwolf, someone was bound to hear them sooner or later.

“Be quiet!” she pleaded, half silently, as she forced two of her fingers inside the cage, not caring whether he would bite them off, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Clegane watched her with some interest from what she noticed, but made no move to help her.

Something rough and wet briefly nudged against her fingers, and dimly, she realized that Greywind was licking her fingers. _Licking her fingers._ Much better than biting them off. At least he was quiet now, quiet except for the deep growl in his chest, a sound that would have chilled her to the bone hadn’t she known it was not directed towards her.

“Do something!”, she hissed.

Clegane raised an eyebrow.

She pulled back her fingers, causing the growl to grow significantly louder, and rose to her feet, wiping off her hand. “Do something!”, she repeated, shaking with fury and fear and a million other things, “You said you wanted to sell me out to my brother. You _said_ so! He’ll pay you double if you save him! And if he’s dead, he won’t pay you anything!” Her eyes were burning, and never had she wished for Needle as much as she had right now. “Please! You wouldn’t have helped me with _them_ either if you hadn’t been considering…”

 _Them_ was directed towards a bunch of now former Frey soldiers, some of them headless, some limbless, sprawled around on the floor, their blood black in the dancing torchlight. The air smelled of copper blood and ashes, and Arya felt bile on her tongue as she turned back towards the cage. It wouldn’t be long until someone missed the men, would it?

She saw Clegane’s movement when she just reached out for the lock once more, and only managed to withdraw her hands in time when the heavy blade of his sword came crashing down on it, splitting the rusty damn thing precisely in two.

The direwolf came forth from the cage like a bolt from a crossbow, every hair on his body standing on end, jaws gnashing in fury and yellow eyes burning like fire, the noises that emerged from his throat far from every sound Arya had ever hear a living thing make, but she threw herself against him, arms wrapping around the creature’s neck. “Stop! Stop, he’s my – help! _Greywind!_ ”

He was squirming, almost dragging her off her feet, but she did not let go. Gods, he was huge! The last time she’d seen a direwolf – well, that had been Nymeria, hadn’t it? And she’d been smaller than herself, then… and now, she could have mounted Greywind’s back and ridden him to battle, had she so desired. She very much felt like it – a little, perhaps – but there was no time. At least, the sound of his name seemed to bring the wolf to reason, if only a little.

“Greywind.” She said his name once more, and another time, and a third. “Greywind, Greywind, you know me, don’t you? You can’t go in there, they’ll kill you, Greywind, stay, stay, listen, wait, stay, stay, please, Robb’ll need your help.”

“I shoulda let’em shoot it” Clegane growled in a voice as deep as the wolf’s, making a careful step back from where he stood, “An’ you with it.”

Greywind made a hissing sound, but he stood still, every muscle in his body hard and tensed for battle, teeth flashing white.

Very slowly, Arya let go, though she kept a close eye on him, should he make another attempt of escape. Instead, she very carefully placed her hands at his muzzle, looking him straight in the eyes.

“You need to leave.”

Greywind’s ears twitched and he made a soft, whining sound that felt like a dagger to Arya’s heart. It was true what they’d said, she noticed, then; of course it was. Her brother and Greywind had gone to battle together, and he was not afraid of soldiers anymore. And still, she knew, he remembered her – she could see it in his eyes. He knew who she was, saw her as one of the pack. The thought alone made her want to weep.

She took a deep breath. “Go!” she hissed then, “Find friends! Find help, then come back! _Go!_ ”

There were no soldiers visible yet from where she stood, but torches and feet were dancing not too far away, screams filling the air and her thoughts were racing, jumping from shadow to shadow and plan to plan, one more daring than the other.

“Robb needs a new pack”, she said, then.

Something moved in the direwolf’s eyes, and he stared at her without blinking. Did he understand what she said? She didn’t know; once, she’d thought Nymeria understood every word of hers. But she’d had to throw stones at Nymeria for her to leave, and surely, Greywind would be no less loyal to Robb now, especially not now.

“Robb needs a new pack” she repeated firmly, looking him dead in the eyes, “D’you understand? Go. Find Nymeria. Find Summer and Shaggydog. Find _Ghost_ , find Jon, they will help. Find a new pack for Robb, then come back and help.”

 _Wolf dreams_ , she remembered. She’d dreamed of wolves, in the Riverlands, many of them. A new pack. Maybe a pack that would come to their help.

Greywind’s muscles relaxed, very very slowly. And then, his head lowered, and briefly, he nuzzled her cheek, before he shot one last growl at Clegane, and left, his feet making no sound as he disappeared in the shadows between the trees.

For a moment, there was silence between them.

“Impressive”, Clegane noted, then.

Arya hastily wiped her face and her lips tightened. “We need to find my brother.”

She turned on her heels and started to run.

 

The air tasted of blood and smoke and death. Arya’s palms were wet with sweat as she peeked around the corner, and Clegane just in time caught up to her and grabbed her by the neck like an unruly puppy to avoid her storming out to face the guards.

“Bloody cowards locked the door, eh?”

“Yes.” Her hands curled into fists so tight she could feel the pain of her own nails digging into her flesh. “They must be in there. Any ideas?”

“I thought you were the one with a plan” Clegane replied, his charred lips not moving as he spoke. Then, he gave a shrug, and pushed her out of their hiding place.

As he grabbed her arm, she gave a small shriek of pain; his grip was hard as iron, too, and he dragged her mercilessly towards the guards.

It was two of them that were watching the entrance to what must have been the feast hall. One of them, a tall, red haired fellow whose cheeks were covered with pock marks and the remains of red stubble, stepped forward as he saw them approach, a hand loosely resting on the hilt of his sword.

“…you’re the Hound”, he said then, expressing half rotten teeth in a nasty grin, “You’re too late, the feast’s already started. And Lord Walder said, no disturbances.”

Sickness was gathering in Arya’s stomach, and a dreadful cold. _Cowards, cowards, cowards_ , a dark thing whispered in the back of her head, _cowards, cowards, cowards._ She wanted to scream, to cry, to feel blood on her hands and rip the man’s head clean off. Maybe she wanted the Hound to do it, too.

He didn’t. Instead, his grip on her arm tightened a little more to keep her from escaping, causing her to squirm in pain.

“This is Arya Stark”, he said then, “The king sent her with me to identify the traitor king an’ his whore of a mother. He’s no plannin’ on leavin’ them to you fuckers, son. He wants’em in King’s Landing, where all the country can see their guts spillin’ from their bellies at Ser Ilyn’s hands. Just in case your Lord Walder was considerin’ to collect his reward without any visible success, eh?”

Arya’s fingertips were tingling and she hardly felt her arm anymore. Her lips felt numb, too.

The redhead gave a snort. “Aye, really? Good luck swoopin’ up what’s left o’them, then.” He stepped aside.

 

Ever since her father’s death at the steps of the Sept of Baelor, Arya’s dreams had turned into nightmares. They had been worse, too, after the Riverlands and Harrenhal, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of what she saw when Clegane forced her into the hall.

Her mother stood surrounded by the corpses of dead Northmen, her dress splattered with blood, and a fry knife pressed to the throat of a plain looking young girl. Robb himself leaned against one of the tables, his face as white as chalk, and obviously hardly able to keep himself on his feet. The feathery shafts of crossbow bolts stuck out from his chest.

She felt herself moving, but not by her own efforts; she did not even remember she had feet when Clegane dragged her through the dead and dying as if he’d never done anything else. Darkly, she remembered some of their names. Dacey Mormont, her lips bloody, her guts indeed spilling from her body, eyes lifeless and empty in their sockets. Hadn’t she had a daughter of Arya’s age? A man bearing the Umber crest on his chest, throat slit. Several more crests Arya did not recognise – Sansa would have known them, most likely, or Bran. Robb surely did. Worst of all, perhaps, was a young woman bearing no crest at all, her dress a simple grey-and-blue, with long, dark hair and almond shaped eyes, her belly heavily swollen with pregnancy, her skirt drenched with blood both of herself and her unborn, dead eyes staring at the ceiling wide with shock, one hand still resting on what might have been her child.

Arya turned her head away. From a corner of her eye, she saw another face, pale, but very much alive.

Roose Bolton. She surely remembered _him_.

Walder Frey himself was sitting at his dinner table, beady eyes looking as displeased as if he’d been disturbed over an extremely delicious meal when they happened upon the Hound and Arya.

“You’re too late, Clegane” he said with a voice creaking like old wood, “And you’re not invited. You can take their heads to King’s Landing, if you feel like it…”

Catelyn Stark did not say a single word, only stared at her daughter, eyes as wide as those of the dead girl on the ground.

“I’ll take _all_ of them to King’s Landing” the Hound replied calmly, “Alive, and with an escort of your men, Frey. King’s orders. Time to show where your loyalty lies.”

He pulled Arya somewhat closer to himself, and she felt the cold steel of a blade pressed against her neck.

“Put down that knife now, m’lady. If ye don’t quite mind.”


End file.
